Rilla of Ingleside (Unabridged). Lucy Maud Montgomery
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etc. And now she must go and ask this stale question again.
Kenneth was tired of inquiries about his ankle. But then he had not often been asked about it by lips with such an adorable kissable dent just above them. Perhaps that was why he answered very patiently that it was getting on well and didn’t trouble him much, if he didn’t walk or stand too long at a time.
“They tell me it will be as strong as ever in time, but I’ll have to cut football out this fall.”
They danced together and Rilla knew every girl in sight envied her. After the dance they went down the rock steps and Kenneth found a little flat and they rowed across the moonlit channel to the sandshore; they walked on the sand till Kenneth’s ankle made protest and then they sat down among the dunes. Kenneth talked to her as he had talked to Nan and Di. Rilla, overcome with a shyness she did not understand, could not talk much, and thought he would think her frightfully stupid; but in spite of this it was all very wonderful — the exquisite moonlit night, the shining sea, the tiny little wavelets swishing on the sand, the cool and freakish wind of night crooning in the stiff grasses on the crest of the dunes, the music sounding faintly and sweetly over the channel.
“‘A merry lilt o’ moonlight for mermaiden revelry,’” quoted Kenneth softly from one of Walter’s poems.
And just he and she alone together in the glamour of sound and sight! If only her slippers didn’t bite so! and if only she could talk cleverly like Miss Oliver — nay, if she could only talk as she did herself to other boys! But words would not come, she could only listen and murmur little commonplace sentences now and again. But perhaps her dreamy eyes and her dented lip and her slender throat talked eloquently for her. At any rate Kenneth seemed in no hurry to suggest going back and when they did go back supper was in progress. He found a seat for her near the window of the lighthouse kitchen and sat on the sill beside her while she ate her ices and cake. Rilla looked about her and thought how lovely her first party had been. She would never forget it. The room reechoed to laughter and jest. Beautiful young eyes sparkled and shone. From the pavilion outside came the lilt of the fiddle and the rhythmic steps of the dancers.
There was a little disturbance among a group of boys crowded about the door; a young fellow pushed through and halted on the threshold, looking about him rather sombrely. It was Jack Elliott from over-harbour — a McGill medical student, a quiet chap not much addicted to social doings. He had been invited to the party but had not been expected to come since he had to go to Charlottetown that day and could not be back until late. Yet here he was — and he carried a folded paper in his hand.
Gertrude Oliver looked at him from her corner and shivered again. She had enjoyed the party herself, after all, for she had foregathered with a Charlottetown acquaintance who, being a stranger and much older than most of the guests, felt himself rather out of it, and had been glad to fall in with this clever girl who could talk of world doings and outside events with the zest and vigour of a man. In the pleasure of his society she had forgotten some of her misgivings of the day. Now they suddenly returned to her. What news did Jack Elliott bring? Lines from an old poem flashed unbidden into her mind—”there was a sound of revelry by night”—”Hush! Hark! A deep sound strikes like a rising knell” — why should she think of that now? Why didn’t Jack Elliott speak — if he had anything to tell? Why did he just stand there, glowering importantly?
“Ask him — ask him,” she said feverishly to Allan Daly. But somebody else had already asked him. The room grew very silent all at once. Outside the fiddler had stopped for a rest and there was silence there too. Afar off they heard the low moan of the gulf — the presage of a storm already on its way up the Atlantic. A girl’s laugh drifted up from the rocks and died away as if frightened out of existence by the sudden stillness.
“England declared war on Germany today,” said Jack Elliott slowly. “The news came by wire just as I left town.”
“God help us,” whispered Gertrude Oliver under her breath. “My dream — my dream! The first wave has broken.” She looked at Allan Daly and tried to smile.
“Is this Armageddon?” she asked.
“I am afraid so,” he said gravely.
A chorus of exclamations had arisen round them — light surprise and idle interest for the most part. Few there realized the import of the message — fewer still realized that it meant anything to them. Before long the dancing was on again and the hum of pleasure was as loud as ever. Gertrude and Allan Daly talked the news over in low, troubled tones. Walter Blythe had turned pale and left the room. Outside he met Jem, hurrying up the rock steps.
“Have you heard the news, Jem?”
“Yes. The Piper has come. Hurrah! I knew England wouldn’t leave France in the lurch. I’ve been trying to get Captain Josiah to hoist the flag but he says it isn’t the proper caper till sunrise. Jack says they’ll be calling for volunteers tomorrow.”
“What a fuss to make over nothing,” said Mary Vance disdainfully as Jem dashed off. She was sitting out with Miller Douglas on a lobster trap which was not only an unromantic but an uncomfortable seat. But Mary and Miller were both supremely happy on it. Miller Douglas was a big, strapping, uncouth lad, who thought Mary Vance’s tongue uncommonly gifted and Mary Vance’s white eyes stars of the first magnitude; and neither of them had the least inkling why Jem Blythe wanted to hoist the lighthouse flag. “What does it matter if there’s going to be a war over there in Europe? I’m sure it doesn’t concern us.”
Walter looked at her and had one of his odd visitations of prophecy.
“Before this war is over,” he said — or something said through his lips—”every man and woman and child in Canada will feel it — you, Mary, will feel it — feel it to your heart’s core. You will weep tears of blood over it. The Piper has come — and he will pipe until every corner of the world has heard his awful and irresistible music. It will be years before the dance of death is over — years, Mary. And in those years millions of hearts will break.”
“Fancy now!” said Mary who always said that when she couldn’t think of anything else to say. She didn’t know what Walter meant but she felt uncomfortable. Walter Blythe was always saying odd things. That old Piper of his — she hadn’t heard anything about him since their playdays in Rainbow Valley — and now here he was bobbing up again. She didn’t like it, and that was the long and short of it.
“Aren’t you painting it rather strong, Walter?” asked Harvey Crawford, coming up just then. “This war won’t last for years — it’ll be over in a month or two. England will just wipe Germany off the map in no time.”
“Do you think a war for which Germany has been preparing for twenty years will be over in a few weeks?” said Walter passionately. “This isn’t a paltry struggle in a Balkan corner, Harvey. It is a death grapple. Germany comes to conquer or to die. And do you know what will happen if she conquers? Canada will be a German colony.”
“Well, I guess a few things will happen before that,” said Harvey shrugging his shoulders. “The British navy would have to be licked for one; and for another, Miller here, now, and I, we’d raise a dust, wouldn’t we, Miller? No Germans need apply for this old country, eh?”
Harvey ran down the steps laughing.
“I declare, I think all you boys talk the craziest stuff,” said Mary Vance in disgust. She got up and dragged Miller off to the rock-shore. It didn’t happen often that they had a chance for a talk together; Mary was determined that this one shouldn’t be spoiled by Walter Blythe’s silly blather about Pipers and Germans and such like absurd things. They left Walter standing alone on the rock steps, looking out over the beauty of Four Winds with brooding eyes that saw it not.
The best of the evening was over for Rilla, too. Ever since Jack Elliott’s announcement, she had sensed that Kenneth was no longer thinking about her. She felt suddenly lonely and unhappy. It was worse than if he had never noticed her at all. Was life like this — something delightful happening and then, just as you were revelling in it, slipping away from you? Rilla told herself pathetically that